Ashworth Hall

by Anne Perry

  “Surely they will forget all that now?” Piers looked startled. “The future of Ireland may be altered here if Mr. Radley can keep the conference going. After all that has happened, how can anyone care about something so—”

  She smiled at him, touching his cheek with her finger. “My dear, we are quite capable of worrying about our own personal grievances and private habits while the whole world is collapsing around us. Perhaps it is easier to think on that scale. I don’t doubt the Last Trump will find some of us bickering about the price of a piece of ribbon, or who forgot to pinch out the candle. The end of the world would seem too much to grasp in the mind.” She glanced at Pitt. “Don’t worry about us, Mr. Pitt, we shall manage the day.”

  He found himself liking Justine far more than he had expected to. She was anything but ordinary. He wondered what she saw in Piers that so attracted her. He seemed so young compared with her mature humor and balance. But then he was judging on the slightest acquaintance, and it was unfair. He knew very little about any of them, beyond the superficial.

  He thanked Eudora and took his leave, arranging to meet Piers in the stables in fifteen minutes.

  It was cold but not unpleasant as they set out on two excellent horses, traveling first across the parkland at a brisk canter, then turning along the edge of plowed fields and towards a lane which wound through a patch of woodland. It had been years since Pitt had ridden. One does not forget the feel of the animal. The creak of leather, the smell, the rhythmic movement were all familiar, but he knew he would be painfully stiff the next day. He was using muscles unstretched in a decade. He could imagine Tellman’s comments, and see the discreet smile on Jack’s face.

  They could not converse while they were moving swiftly, but when they were obliged to slow to a walk between the trees it came quite naturally. Piers rode well, with the grace of a man who is both used to the saddle and fond of his animals.

  “Will you look for a city practice?” Pitt asked, as much for something uncontentious to say as because he was interested.

  “Oh no,” Piers replied quickly, lifting his head to look at the bare branches above. “I really don’t like London. And I know Justine would prefer a country life.”

  “I imagine your father’s death will change your plans?” They were moving more slowly now along a winding path, Piers a little ahead as they crossed a stream and the horses scrambled up the farther bank, sending a scatter of stones back into the water. The wind caught a flurry of fallen leaves with a rustling sound, and far away to the left a dog barked.

  “I hadn’t thought of it,” Piers said frankly. “Mama will stay on in Oakfield House, of course. It hasn’t anything like the lands of Ashworth. There are no farms to manage. She won’t need me. Justine and I will find somewhere, perhaps near Cambridge. Of course, financially I will be more fortunately placed, I suppose.”

  “You probably will not need to practice medicine,” Pitt pointed out.

  Piers swiveled quickly to stare at him. “But I want to! I know my father would have liked me to stand for Parliament, but I have no interest in it whatever. I am interested in public health.” There was a sudden enthusiasm in his face, a light in his eyes which made him quite different from the rather bland young man he had been even moments before. “I care about diseases of nutrition especially. Have you any idea how many English children suffer from rickets? The medical textbook even calls it the English disease! And scurvy. It isn’t only seamen who get scurvy. And night blindness. There are too many things we are on the brink of being able to treat, but we don’t quite manage it.”

  “Are you sure you don’t want to be in Parliament?” Pitt said wryly, catching up to ride beside him as they emerged into an open field.

  Piers was perfectly serious. “You can’t make laws until you have proved your case. First you must make them believe, then understand, then care. After that it is time for legislation. I want to work with people who need help, not argue with politicians and make compromises.”

  Pitt dismounted and opened the gate at the side of the field and held it while Piers took both horses through, then closed it behind them. He remounted a trifle more elegantly than he had mounted the first time.

  “That makes me sound very arrogant, doesn’t it?” Piers said more moderately. “I know compromise is necessary in a lot of things. I just have no skills at it. My father was brilliant. He could charm and persuade people into all sorts of things. If anyone could have succeeded with the Irish Problem, it would have been he. He had a sort of power, almost an invulnerability. He wasn’t afraid of people the way most of us are. He always knew what he wanted out of any situation and how much he was prepared to yield or to pay for it. He never changed his mind.”

  Pitt thought about it as they moved forward into a canter again over a long stretch of pasture land. He had seen that assurance in Greville, the quiet ruthlessness of a man who can keep his purpose in mind and never waver from it. It was a very necessary quality in his chosen profession, but it was not entirely attractive. Piers had not said that directly, but he had allowed it to be inferred. There was no warmth when he spoke of his father, and very little regret.

  Oakfield House was, as he had said, considerably smaller than Ashworth, but it was still a very handsome residence. Approaching it from the west, it looked to be of a size to have ten or twelve bedrooms, and numerous stables and other outbuildings. It was the country home of a man of both taste and position, discreet but of considerable wealth.

  They left the horses with the groom and went in through the side door. Pitt was already feeling his leg muscles pull a little. By the next day he would be regretting this.

  The butler came across the hall looking disconcerted, his white hair ruffled.

  “Master Piers! We weren’t expecting you. I’m afraid Mr. and Mrs. Greville are away at the moment. But of course …” He saw Pitt and his expression became colder and more formal. “Good morning, sir. May I be of any assistance?”

  “Thurgood,” Piers said quietly. He walked towards him and took him by one elbow. “I’m sorry, but there has been a tragedy. My father has been killed. Uncle Padraig is with Mama, but it was necessary that I come here with Mr. Pitt.” He indicated Pitt while still steadying the swaying butler with the other hand. “We need to look at Papa’s papers and letters, and find the threats that were sent recently. If there is anything you know which might be of help, please make sure you tell us.”

  “Killed?” Thurgood looked startled. Suddenly his slight officiousness vanished and he looked elderly and rather rumpled.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so,” Piers continued. “But please tell the staff there will be no changes, and they are to continue as usual. They must not discuss it yet, because it has not been in the newspapers, and we have not informed the other members of the family.”

  It rose to Pitt’s tongue to ask Thurgood not to mention it at all, but he realized before he spoke that that would be an impossibility. The man’s shock was all too apparent. Others would draw the news from him even if he were unwilling. The air of tragedy and fear was already in the house.

  “Perhaps you would arrange a hot toddy for us,” Piers went on. “It’s been a long ride. And then luncheon at about one. We’ll take it in the library. A little cold meat or pie, whatever you have.”

  “Yes sir. I’m very sorry, sir. I’m sure the other staff will wish me to convey their sympathies also,” Thurgood said awkwardly. “When shall we expect the mistress home, sir? And of course there will be … arrangements ….”

  “I don’t know yet. I’m sorry.” Piers frowned. “Do you understand, Thurgood, this is a government secret at the moment? I think perhaps you had better tell the housekeeper and no one else. Treat it as a family embarrassment, if you like.” He glanced at Pitt and smiled with a little twist of the mouth. “Use the same discretion you would if you had overheard a confession to something shameful.”

  Thurgood obviously did not understand, but his face reflected bland obedience.<
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  When he had withdrawn. Piers led the way to the library, with his father’s large desk in one corner. The room was cold, but the fire was laid, and Piers bent and lit it without bothering to call a servant. As soon as he was sure it had caught, he straightened up and produced keys to open the desk drawers.

  The first one yielded personal accounts, and Pitt read through them without expecting to find anything of interest. There were tailors’ bills, and shirtmakers’; receipts for two pairs of very expensive boots, onyx-faced shirt studs and a fan of carved ivory and lace, an enameled pillbox with a painting of a lady on a swing, and three bottles of lavender water. They were all dated within the last month. It seemed Greville had been a very generous husband. It surprised Pitt. He had not observed such affection or imagination in him. Eudora was going to find the loss bitter. The private man had obviously been more sensitive and far more emotional than the public politician.

  He stood still, holding the papers in his hand, looking around the well-furnished library with its book-lined walls, a few excellent paintings, mostly of scenes from Africa, water-colors of Table Mountain and the sweeping skies of the Veldt. The books in the cases were largely sets of volumes, uniformly bound in leather, but one case seemed to hold odd ones, and from the armchair it was the most easily accessible. He would look at them if he had time. Greville had suddenly become more interesting as a man, a sharper loss now that Pitt had seen his humanity, a sense of his inner emotion.

  Piers was looking through the drawers on the further side of the desk. He straightened up, several letters in his hand.

  “I think I have them,” he said grimly, holding them forward. “Some of them are threatening.” He looked puzzled, hurt. “Only two are anonymous or sound political.” He stared at Pitt, uncertain what he wanted to say. Twice he started, stopped again, and then simply put out his hand with the papers.

  Pitt took them and looked at the first. It was printed in block letters and extremely simple.

  Do not betray Ireland or you will be sorry. We will win our freedom, and no Englishman is going to defeat us this time. It will be a simple matter to kill you. Remember that.

  Not surprisingly, it was unsigned and undated.

  The next was utterly different. It was written in a strong, clear hand, and it was both dated and carried a sender’s address.

  Oct 20th. 1890.

  Dear Greville,

  I find it most repugnant to have to address any gentleman on a matter such as this, but your behaviour leaves me no alternative. Your attentions to my wife must cease immediately. I do not propose to enlarge upon the subject. You are aware of your transgression and it needs no detail from me.

  If you see her again, other than as the ordinary demands of civilized society dictate, and in public, I shall take the necessary steps to sue her for divorce, and cite you as an adulterer. I am sure I do not need to spell out what this will do to your career.

  I do not write this in idleness. Through her behaviour with you I have lost all regard for her, and while I would not willingly ruin her, I shall do so rather than continue to be betrayed in this fashion.

  Yours most candidly

  Gerald Easterwood

  Pitt looked up at Piers. The image of Greville of only a few moments ago had been shattered.

  “Do you know a Mrs. Easterwood?” he said quietly.

  “Yes. At least by reputation. I’m afraid it is not much … not as good as perhaps Mr. Easterwood would like to imagine.”

  “Was he a friend of your father’s?”

  “Easterwood? No. Hardly the same social circle. My father—” he hesitated “—was a good friend to those he liked, or considered his equals. I can’t imagine him using another man’s wife, not if the man were someone he knew … I mean, as a friend. He was very loyal to his friends.” He started as if to repeat it again, and realized he had already stressed it.

  Pitt looked at the next letter. It was another political threat, and very plainly concerning the future of Ireland, but seemed to be more in favor of the Protestant Ascendancy and the preservation of the estates which had been worked for and paid for by Anglo-Irish landlords. It also promised reprisals if Greville should betray their interests.

  The one after was personal and signed.

  My dear Greville,

  I can never thank you sufficiently for the generosity you have extended to me in this matter. Without you it would have been a disaster for me—deserved perhaps, but nevertheless because of your intervention I shall survive, to behave with more circumspection in the future.

  I am forever in your debt,

  Your humble and grateful friend

  Langley Osbourne

  “Do you know him?” Pitt asked.

  Piers looked blank. “No.”

  There were three more. Another was an Irish threat, but so illiterately written it was hard to understand what was desired, except an ill-defined idea of justice. The threat of a most colorful death was constrastingly plain, and mention was made of an old story of lovers who had both been betrayed by the English.

  The following one was quite long, and from a friend of some considerable intimacy and length of time. The tone was one of social arrogance, class loyalty, common memory and interest, and deep unquestioned personal affection and trust. Pitt instinctively disliked the writer, one Malcom Anders, and found himself judging Greville less kindly because of it.

  The last letter was unopened, even though the postmark was dated almost two weeks before. Apparently it had been of little interest to him. Presumably he had recognized the writing and not bothered to read it. Perhaps he had received it when there was no fire burning and he had not wished to leave it in the wastepaper basket, where a curious housemaid or footman might see it and maybe have sufficient literacy to be able to understand it.

  Pitt opened it carefully and read. It was a love letter from a woman who signed herself Mary-Jane. It spoke of an intimate relationship which Greville had ended, according to the writer, abruptly and without explanation, other than the assumption that he had become bored with her. There seemed a callousness about the whole matter which Pitt found repellent. Certainly there was an element of using, and nothing of love. Whether she had loved him, or simply used him also, in a different manner, he could only guess.

  He handed the letters back to Piers.

  “I can see why he felt the threats were probably irrelevant,” he said matter-of-factly. “They could be from anyone at all, and seem to come from Nationalist Catholic and Protestant Unionist alike. It doesn’t help us at all. Still, we’ll take them.”

  “Just … the threats?” Piers said quickly.

  “Yes, of course. Lock the others back in the drawer. You can destroy them later if we find they have nothing to do with the case.”

  “They can’t have.” Piers still held them in his hand. “There’s nothing political about them. It’s simply a sordid affair … well, two. But both of them are over … were over … before this. Can’t you just burn them, and keep quiet? My mother has enough to bear without having to know about this.”

  “Lock them up again,” Pitt instructed. “And keep the keys yourself. When the case is over you can come in here and sort anything you want to, and destroy what is better kept discreet. Now, let me look through the rest of the drawers.”

  The butler returned, looking haggard, bringing the promised hot toddy. He seemed on the brink of enquiring as to their success, then changed his mind and left.

  They searched the rest of the library but found nothing more of interest to the case. The books and papers shed more light on Greville’s character. He was obviously a man of high intelligence and wide interests. There was the first draft of a monograph on ancient Roman medicine, and Pitt could happily have taken the time to read it, had he had any excuse. It was vividly written. On the shelves there were books on subjects as diverse as early Renaissance painting in Tuscany and the native birds of North America.

  Pitt wondered if Eudora had any p
lace in the room, if he had shared some of his interests with her, or if their worlds of the mind had been entirely separate, as was the case in some marriages. All that many held in common were a home, children, a social life and status, and economic circumstance. The imagination, the humor, the great voyages of the heart and intellect, were all made alone. Even the searching of the spirit was unshared.

  How much would Eudora really miss him? Had she any idea of the reality of her home, or did she see what she wished to see? Many people did that as a way to place armor around their vulnerability and preserve what they had for survival. He could not blame her if she were one of those.

  Luncheon was brought to them in the library and they ate by the fire, saying little. Piers had already learned more about his father in the last two hours than in the preceding ten years, and it complicated the picture he held of him. There was too much to admire and to despise, too much that tore open the emotions and made grief a far more complex thing than simply a sudden loneliness.

  Pitt did not intrude with speech.

  After they had finished Pitt went out to find the coach driver and question him about the incident on the road. That had been a serious and genuine attempt at murder.

  He found the man in the stables polishing a harness. The smell of leather and saddle soap jerked him back in memory to his youth and the estate where his father had been gamekeeper and he had grown up. He could have been a boy again, scrounging winter apples, sitting silently in the corner listening to the grooms and coachmen talking of the horses and dogs, swapping gossip. He could imagine going back to supper in the gamekeeper’s cottage, and to bed in his tiny room under the eaves. Or later, after his father’s disgrace, after the anger and the rage of injustice had passed, to his room at the top of the big house, when Sir Arthur had taken in his mother and himself.